


almost you

by annalyia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Coping, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Sex, Tags Are Hard, a little bit of violence but not enough to be considered graphic, learning to love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22464889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalyia/pseuds/annalyia
Summary: coping is always the hardest part
Relationships: Alistair/Anora Mac Tir, Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	almost you

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy!

Anora glances up from her work as she hears a quiet knock at her door. She frowns, wondering who else would be up this late. Straightening her posture, she says, “come in.”

The door opens to reveal the elf—the Warden— _just Surana please_ , she’s been corrected again and again. “Hello, Anora,” Surana says. She looks… _sadder_ than usual for some reason.

Defeated, almost.

“Hello,” Anora replies. “What are you doing up so late?”

Surana twirls a lock of short blonde hair around her finger. “Thinking,” she replies cryptically. 

\-----

Alistair lies in his bed, dozing, when he hears the door creak open. He doesn’t move, instead just waiting to see what the other person will do. Their footsteps sound across the floor before stopping at the side of the bed. The sheets are pulled aside, and someone crawls into his bed before molding their body to his.

He recognizes the shape, the curves, the feel of her as she snuggles against him. “Hello, love,” he mumbles sleepily, wrapping an arm around Surana. “You’re late.”

“Let me make it up to you,” she replies, and her lips begin tracing their way across his skin, rousing him the more they move. There’s something desperate, something sad in her when their lips finally meet. 

Her hands trace every plane of his body, almost like she’s trying to remember the feel of him. Alistair gently pushes her away, his concern evident. “Are you all right?”

She turns her head to the side, but it doesn’t mask her tears. “Fine,” she says.

“Fine people don’t cry like this,” he counters, lifting a hand to cup her cheek. She leans into his hand, closing her eyes and almost savoring his touch. “Love, you can talk to me.”

“I know,” she says, eyes still closed and focus still on his hand. “But, at the moment, I do not wish to talk.” Her eyes open and, _Maker_ , she’s silently pleading with him. She really doesn’t want to talk. Alistair frowns, but brings her face to his, kissing her on the lips. If she wishes not to speak, he will grant her that wish.

He will do anything for her. 

\-----

“I love you,” Surana says, fierce determination written all over her face. Her hair, normally well-kept, is swept around by the wind, tangled in such a way that Alistair knows will make her grumble when she tries to fix it later—

Except, he knows, this time there won’t be a later.

“Surana, no—”

“I love you, Alistair,” she says. This time, there are no tears in her eyes. There is nothing other than understanding in her expression. 

“I love you, too,” he says. “But, please, don’t—there, there has to be another way.”

She brings a hand to his cheek, cradling it with so much love, much more than he ever thought he deserved. “There is not.” She kisses him once, twice, softly, but still does not cry. 

And then she runs, right at the Archdemon. 

“Surana, _no_!” Alistair shouts, reaching out to stop her, but feeling a strong grip on his left arm stopping him from going anywhere. He turns, and sees both Leliana and Wynne holding him. “I have to go!” he cries at them angrily, desperately, pulling against them. 

“No, you don’t,” Leliana replies firmly, expression hard. “This is what she wants.”

And with that, the fight goes out of Alistair, and he falls to his knees, watching as Surana takes her staff and stabs at the Archdemon again and again and again with the dagger she attached to the end of it, elegantly gliding down the archdemon’s body, dragging her staff through it. 

The Archdemon roars in pain—and anger, too, Alistair can tell, thanks to the Taint—as it turns towards its aggressor. That determined expression that used to make him smile, used to make him love her more and more, is still on Surana’s face. She wipes sweat from her brow, and squares herself before breathing in deeply. Letting the breath out slowly, she takes off in a run again, leaping higher off the ground than Alistair has ever seen her go before—she’s using her magic to help—and, with a shout, buries the end of her staff in the archdemon’s head. It screams once more before falling, taking Surana down with it. 

Leliana and Wynne slacken their holds on Alistair. Because they know that he won’t run, or from awe at Surana’s actions, he doesn’t know. 

They all wait with bated breath, watching the dust clear. 

As it does, they see a figure. She’s standing, barely, looking at the carnage in front of her, back to her friends. Lazily, Surana looks at them over her shoulder, a grin on her blood-covered face. She raises a shaky hand in a thumbs up, mouth moving even though they can’t hear her, and then falls. 

Alistair runs to her.

She’s lying on the ground, stiller than he’s ever seen her before—she’s always moving, be it talking to herself, practicing magic, laughing at something someone else has said. He scoops her up in his arms, smoothing the hair back from her sweaty brow. “No,” he whispers as he meets her lifeless eyes. 

She’s gone.

Alistair holds her as close as he can, loud sobs wracking his body. 

He feels a hand on each shoulder. One is firm and strong, doing its best to hold him together. The other is gentle, soft, almost as if it’s afraid that touching him will cause him to shatter. “Let’s take her back,” Wynne says. “The others will want to know.”

Alistair shakes his head. “She can’t be gone,” he chokes out. 

“Alistair, please,” Leliana pleads. Her voice is close to breaking. “She would want us to continue.” There is a pause, as Leliana gives him a moment. “And there are…things that you need to do.”

“What in Andraste’s name could I possibly need to do _now_?” he asks bitterly.

“Be king,” Wynne says simply.

\-----

Alistair taps his foot impatiently as yet another baron asks for aid. He’s tired of sitting here. The crown is too heavy on his head, his royal clothes are too itchy on his skin. He glances to his right, and he sees Anora, head held high and posture straight as a board, as she listens carefully to what the baron needs. 

Surana would have been just as bored with this as he is.

Well, if she were still here, he wouldn’t even be king. They’d still be with the Grey Wardens, and Anora would be ruling alone. 

He’s pulled from his internal monologue by Anora speaking. “—sure to get your bannorn the help it needs. The king and I will begin the preparations soon.”

“Thank you, your majesties,” the baron says, bowing deeply.

“Of course,” Anora says. She raises her eyebrows at Alistair, prompting him to say something as well.

“Ah, yes, of course, good sir,” Alistair says. “You are dismissed.”

The baron bows once more, before turning on his heel to be escorted out of the throne room by the guards. 

“That is all for the day, my king and queen,” one of the guards says. He bows before leaving the room, taking the other guards with him. 

Alistair slouches in his chair as soon as everyone is gone, resting his elbow on the throne and his head on his hand. “This is the worst part about being king,” he grumbles. “The endless meetings, and no one ever calls you by name.”

“There are worse things,” Anora says. “Stop slouching,” she snaps once she notices his posture. “You’re the king, so it’s time to start acting like it. Honestly, you’ve been king for a whole year now. Act like it, even when there aren’t people around.”

Alistair opens his mouth to say something equally snappish back, but stops himself. She’s right. “I…know,” he says finally. “This just really isn’t what I thought I’d be doing.”

Anora’s expression softens, and he can tell she feels the same. “I know,” she replies. 

“Thank you,” Alistair says, facing Anora and locking eyes with her. “For being… _better_ at this than I am. It’s…nice to have someone who knows what they’re doing.”

A genuine smile forms on Anora’s mouth. “You’re welcome.”

With that, the two leave the throne room. They walk down the hallway towards their room together, talking quietly between themselves. Their dinner—roast beef and vegetable stew with fresh baked bread—is waiting on the table in the sitting area of their room. Alistair ladles the stew into bowls for both of them, which they eat in silence. 

Once her bowl is cleaned, Anora says, “Alistair.”

“Yes?” he replies.

Anora chews on her bottom lip, more nervous than Alistair has ever seen her. “There is…there is something we need to discuss.”

“And what would that be?” 

“An heir,” Anora says quietly.

Alistair chokes on his last bite of stew. “A—what?”

“An heir,” she repeats. “We’ve been…married for a year now, and haven’t produced an heir.”

“Produced?” Alistair muses. “That’s one way to put it.”

Anora purses her lips at him. “You know what I mean,” she says. “We need to provide Ferelden with an heir. We can’t—” she stops, but Alistair knows what she means.

The last time Ferelden didn’t have a set heir, a bastard took the throne.

Sure, _he’s_ that bastard, but still.

There needs to be an heir.

“We should…get on that then,” Alistair says. 

“Indeed,” Anora replies.

They both stay seated at the table.

Alistair glances at the bed. “So, um, shall we?”

Anora nods.

There’s lots of fumbling. The buttons on Anora’s dress give Alistair’s shaking hands trouble. Her hands are not as familiar with his body, unsure where to touch. Her kisses are soft and sweet, not hungry the way—

No. 

He can’t think about her right now.

Anora is his wife, he—

“Are you all right?” Anora asks. Her skin is pale in the moonlight, and Alistair notices that she’s beautiful. Really, she is. She’s soft and smooth and delicate and—

“Yes, I am,” he says. He leans down to kiss her again, hands grazing her chest and hoping for a response.

She gives him one, and it is positive, so he assumes he’s on the right track.

It’s not… _bad_ , he’d say. It’s not the best sex he’s ever had, either, but he doubts he’ll ever be that happy with anyone again.

After, Anora lays her head on his chest. He instinctively wraps an arm around her, thumb rubbing comforting circles into her side.

“That was…good,” Anora says carefully.

“I would have to agree,” Alistair replies. He feels her small smile against his skin. 

“We should…probably keep trying, though,” she says. “Can’t be sure after just once.”

Alistair nods.

And so, they do.

They try a few more times that week, and the week after. It’s getting easier for both of them, each learning where their hands or mouth can make the other squirm, beg for more. After a few months of trying, they know they don’t have to anymore. Anora is growing a bump.

An heir. 

One day, as Alistair is resting his hand on Anora’s belly—“I think I felt it move”—she says something that surprises him.

“I am…glad that I have learned to love you,” Anora tells him.

He starts, eyes growing wide. 

“You don’t have to say anything back, Alistair,” she tells him immediately. “It’s just that, with everything going on, I have found that I take comfort in you, and in your presence. And, while I miss Cailan, I am glad that I have you here with me, and going through this journey with me.”

Alistair stares at his wife—really, truly looks at her—and sees her sincerity. “I’m glad that I can do that for you,” he says softly. He’s not sure if what he feels for her is love, or if he’s just grown to respect and care for her, but he knows that he no longer feels the disdain he once did. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“She told me, you know,” Anora says quietly, oh so quietly. “Her plan.”

“Her plan?” he asks carefully. 

“She came to me, the night before the battle. _Me_ , of all people. I know she was actually friends with Leliana and Wynne, and that she would have had a better time discussing things with them. But she chose me.” Anora sighs, and readjusts her sitting position, straightening her back the best she can. “I wasn’t sure why, at first. She was…cryptic in her words in the beginning, before just telling me her intentions. She said that the swamp witch who traveled with you offered to do a…ritual of sorts. I don’t remember much of the details, but it sounded like if you conceived a child with that witch, it would somehow make it so that no one died when the archdemon was killed.”

“…what?” Alistair breathes. 

“But,” Anora continues, “she said that’s the last thing she wanted. She grew up a Circle mage, and using that sort of ritual was against her beliefs. And, since she knew of your royal lineage, she told me that it would make the most sense for her to step out of the spotlight and for the two of us to rule Fereldan.”

Alistair frowns.

“She told me not to tell you, at least, not at first. Not until the dust had settled and you were settled into life with me, life with the kingdom.” Anora smiles softly at some distant memory. “She looked so determined, so sure of what she was doing. I might act that way, but I cannot say I’ve ever been that sure. So, I agreed. I told her I would do my best to care for you, since she no longer could.” Anora raises a hand to Alistair’s cheek, thumb rubbing against his cheekbone. “I’d…like to think that I have done as she asked.”

Alistair does not reply, not for a long while, instead choosing to ponder exactly what Anora has said. 

He shouldn’t be surprised, he realizes. 

Surana never would have wanted him to go along with a dark ritual brought up by Morrigan. Even though the two got along on the surface, Surana never agreed with Morrigan’s magic, always saying it was mages like Morrigan that made people fear all mages, even ones like Surana and Wynne. And she knew that there wasn’t really a place for her, either. Surana had never wanted to be a Grey Warden, and she knew that she wasn’t allowed back into the Circle. Even with her love for Alistair, and how happy they made each other, Alistair knows that Surana made the right decision. He will _always_ love her, and always miss her, but being king is his duty, his responsibility. Even if he didn’t ask to be born, didn’t ask for any of this, he carries King Maric’s blood, the blood of the Fereldan kings. Surana even made jokes about how, once the war was over, he would be king and she would be his consort. It was always in her plan for him to rule. 

“She knew you would be a good king, Alistair,” Anora says, breaking him away from his thoughts. “She told me so, praised your kindness, understanding, and level head. She also mentioned that you normally delegated to her, and preferred not to lead, in order to prepare me for the role I would have to play for you.” She sighs. “And, while it is a different role than the one I thought I was going to play when I first became queen, I am glad for it, and glad for you.”

After another long pause, Alistair smiles. It is a tired smile, and it doesn’t do much to mask his sadness, but it is real. Wrapping his arm around Anora’s shoulder and bringing her close, he softly says, “as am I.”

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Irw04nbXwxk)
> 
> i've listened to that song a lot, but one day it just gave me hardcore anora/alistair after the warden dies vibes, so here we are
> 
> please please please please please please P L E A S E leave a comment or kudos if you like this!! i cry when i get them


End file.
